


Behind Bars

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Prison AU, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7736431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane is a senior correctional officer who knows a liar when he sees one. His newest inmate, Sansa Stark, is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Bars

**Author's Note:**

> I've been SanSan trash for a long time, but this is my first time posting a fic in the fandom. Not sure if this trope has been done yet, but *shrugs* here goes nothing! 
> 
> Comments feed the author :)

* * *

“I’m no bird; and no net ensnares me.”

 _Jane Eyre_ , Charlotte Bronte

* * *

 

 

He’s seen her face in the tabloids.

 

Sansa Stark, heiress of Stark Holdings. Or she was, until she was convicted of murder and pleaded guilty. Now she is Sansa Stark, a prisoner at Dreadfort Correctional Institute and Sandor Clegane is sure as hellfire is hot that she won’t make it past the first week. Because murderer or not, she’s a sweet young thing.

  
That’s how he knows she won’t last.

 

*******

 

In the end, he’s right but he gets no satisfaction from it.  

For one thing, she’s pretty: as pretty in person as she is on the page. But her prettiness has nothing to do with the way she looks, but everything to do with her hope — hope so strong he can smell it from the other end of the facility.

Hope is a dangerous thing. It means you still have dignity.

And there’s nothing that draws the other inmates like sharks to prey than a girl who still has her dignity.

 

*******

She gets her own cell; the standard procedure for a high-profile prisoner.

He escorts her there, the first night she’s brought in.

There’s nothing nice about her quarters, but already her privilege incenses the other girls. She won’t be quick to make friends here, if she makes any at all. He can tell that she’s used to having everyone love her. But there’ll be none of that here.

He can also tell that she has a hard time with his face.

And he can’t resist mocking her for it.

“My eyes are _here_ , girl. Take your look."

 

She blushes as red as her hair.

 

"There now. _There's_ a pretty for you." 

 

“I’m sorry," she sputters. "That...I didn't mean to be rude." 

“Tch. Spare me your courtesies,” he says as he coaxes her into her cage. “In fact, spare yourself: courtesies won’t help you once I lock this door.”

Her lips tremble and she says nothing else.

_She’s afraid me_ , he thinks, the familiar well of anger simmering below the ruin of his face.

He slams her door a little harder than he should. The sound of steel locking on steel echoing through the night.

 

*******

Sandor watches her after that. More so than the others.

He doesn’t know where this urge comes from and he hates himself for it. He hates her too, in a way, though he’s just as hard-pressed to say why. All he knows is that something isn’t right: the girl pleaded guilty, but she still reeks of innocence.

The girl is no murderer, no matter what the court said, which means her only crime is a lie.  

And he, the loathsome dog that he is, is determined to sniff out the truth.

But he can’t watch her all the time: his shifts vary from day-to-day as does the pattern of his patrols. And he knows there are corners where the cameras don’t catch everything.

That’s where he finds her the next time they meet.

She is crumpled outside the laundry room, crumpled over and clutching her stomach as she tries to catch her breath. Her gasps are shallow and there is blood caking at the bottom of her lip. There will be bruises on both her eyes.

The shirt of her uniform is ripped to shreds.

Still pretty, even then.

He crouches down beside her and removes his jacket, placing it over her shoulders. She looks up at him with glistening eyes, but keeps the tears at bay. _Good_ , he thinks, _she’s learning._

“Can you stand?” he asks.

She does, holding his hand all the while. She is as light and as fragile as a bird.

They walk together in silence to the infirmary.

“I’ll have to report this,” he says to her. She blinks at him, not quite understanding. “If I tell them what happened, they’ll put you in solitary. For your protection.”

She presses her fingers to the swelling on her face, the cut on her lips. He reaches inside his pocket to hand her a handkerchief.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” she asks him softly, so trusting.

Too trusting.

He laughs at her, a low rasping sound he always hated. “It’ll keep the the others away from you, yes. But trust me, little bird, nothing they do will be worse than being trapped in that shithole. You’ll walk in as Sansa Stark, but you’ll leave a rabid animal by the time they let you out.”

She glances up at him, eyes alight. “You know my name.”

His mouth twitches, the burned side. “Everyone knows your name.”

“But _you_ called me by name,” she says. “All the other guards just say ‘inmate.' ”

“So what of it?” he snaps at her.

Impossibly, she smiles. The bow of her bloodied mouth small and shy. She turns to him, the handkerchief in her hand.

He shakes his head. “Keep it, little bird. You’ll be needing that again.”

 


End file.
